


Hellfire

by PunsandPoses



Series: Hellfire [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Gore, Hell, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 18:22:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16455026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunsandPoses/pseuds/PunsandPoses
Summary: Hell is not as bad as he remembers.





	Hellfire

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a MESS. I am so sorry. I'm not even sure exactly what this thing is. Sorry. Warnings for gore and some referenced torture. Also, I have this whole disaster written, I'm just ready to organize the various scenes. *my inner fly rubs hands together*
> 
> Leave a comment or a kudo if you like it, please.

_ ~Hell~ _

He can feel himself growing weary, the angel blade in his hands slippery with liquid, some black and the rest blue-tinged white. 

Castiel sees his assignment in the distance, soaked with blood and holding a dripping knife. Dean Winchester, his battered soul gold and green but blackened at the edges. 

Some nameless demon latches onto Castiel’s arm, and it is several wounds later that it finally releases. A wordless curse escapes him, and instinctively his wings wrap around him. Though on another plane, they still shield, and demons are knocked away by the invisible force. 

Wading through a swamp that has somehow appeared in his path, he reviews his orders. Save Dean Winchester’s soul. Watch the Seals. Investigate Samuel Winchester. 

Hell is not as bad as he remembers. When Lucifer first created demons, they had no mind or will. All they could do was raze and kill, and their instinct led them to rip each other apart. The ground of Hell grew slick with their entrails. Eventually, they grew sentient, and their newfound cunning was something unexpected. Castiel can still see the shock on the Host’s faces if he closes his eyes and remembers. 

But the demons he is fighting now are so simple and mindless they seem to be the descendants of those initial creatures. As he guts one, he focuses on Dean. The elder Winchester is whipping a damned soul, his emotions animalistic rage and sorrow. Castiel can read it all, and he drinks it in quietly. Something in him cracks and swells. The feeling spreads, an ache in his chest, a slow blink of his eyes. It takes him ages to identify it. Pity. 

The blade in his hand nearly slips, and he catches it, hoping that perhaps there will be a reprieve. 

He dashes away the thought as soon as it forms. Angels are warriors. Tireless. He cannot afford to lose focus. 

With renewed vigor, Castiel continues on his path, cutting a throat before stabbing a chest. The blade sinks into vital organs and the demon drops. The entire motion is smooth, flawless, the millennia of training having led him to be the machine every angel is required to be. 

Dean Winchester does not fight like an angel. When Castiel had watched him all those moons ago, when Heaven had first seen him born, and the years had roughened him and given him sleek edges like a rock tossed through the sea, he had not done what Castiel’s training had taught him. There was no neat disabling, his movements and attacks pure brutality. There was none of the finesse an angel demonstrated. Only instinct and sweat and muscle. When Dean Winchester fought, he meant to kill. 

Castiel supposes that style would fit now. He slices off a hand of a demon with three claws, the creatures shrieking in agony and scrambling away. A head is lost, rolling away in the dirt. Dancing the edge of his Heaven-forged knife along a torso, ignoring the stench of blood around him. 

If he were human, he’d notice the adrenaline singing in his bones, the murderous glee that comes only with the frenzy of a battle. But he feels none of it. 

Twisting, he lands a gash on a cheek, the wound shining reddish gold. When one drops a sword after he spills its entrails, he snatches it up, using the double weapons to kill two at once. 

He cannot remember the last time he fought like this. With only weapons, his grace unused as he unleashes a maelstrom of violence. There’s a buzz in his system; he notices his vessel’s reactions, the adrenaline lending him a strength he could never have thought of.

Strangely enough, he likes it. 

The path begins to clear. Dean Winchester is close, so close. Castiel can see the gold and green swirls, the blackened edges of his soul. 

Suddenly, a hand grips his shoulder and whips him back. A white-eyed demon smiles down, its wirlpool face staring without blinking. The craggy ridges of the visage make Castiel wish he knew how to vomit. The demon laughs and traces a talon down his cheek, speaking a guttural language Castiel translates effortlessly.

_ A Seraph. In Hell. My, what a sight. I am Askil. And you, my dear, well your name won’t matter once I’m finished with you.  _

Castiel slashes upward, catching Askil by its ribcage, which stops the sword in its tracks. He yanks it out and ignores the howl of rage Askil emits. 

_ You little rat! I will break every bone in your body, and when I’m through with you, you’ll  _ beg _ me to stop! _

It lunges, and he easily sidesteps the claws rushing past. Quickly, he analyzes Askil, and when the next slash comes, he throws himself forward. Anticipation of the bite of claws makes itself apparent. The searing pain of five talons inches in his skin comes, and he stabs the unguarded chest. 

The demon crumples, and Castiel pushes the demon off him. It’s a mistake. The claws rip his body even more, and small pulses of blood stain the ragged coat of his vessel. 

Dean is only a few feet away. He’s standing still, his shoulders and back rigid, the dagger in his hand limp. Castiel stumbles forward, his numerous injuries clamoring for attention. A rock makes him trip, but he ignores the lance that pierced his shoulder. 

At the sound of footsteps, Dean turns, and he can see through the glow of his soul what Dean must look like. Eyes like sunlight shining through leaves stare at Castiel, and cracked, chapped lips part. 

Castiel knows what he is catastrophically wounded, can feel it in the blood dripping in his eye and from his shoulder, the thousand others, his limbs aching and his body raw. And something in him wants to cry in relief. He has found Dean. 

“Who?...” Dean whispers, the question fading into the wind that now flows around him like an icy mountain stream. It carries something, something dark. It is their warning. 

Castiel says nothing. He can’t. He hasn’t spoken once in the years that he has spent here in Hell. A harsh cry arises, shattering the stillness that had suffocated them both, enveloping them in its waves of malevolence.

Demons.

As well as he can, Castiel shields Dean, his two blades ready. When the first demon comes, the one who let loose the cry that still goes on, he silences it. But that was only one. Hordes pour at them, others picking up the cry that was stifled. It only gets louder, louder. 

Dean has his hands over his ears, and Castiel needs to protect him. Dean. He needs to protect  _ Dean _ . Slicing a jaw off a creature so old, he wonders if it is truly alive and not some magic-bound creation. Claws tear, gnarled talons gash. He reels back, more scarlet seeping and making a river down his face. Five wounds sting in unison. 

His charge is fighting a demon of his own, and as she leaps, her hand flies out. Dean’s arm is slit nearly to the bone.

Something fiery trickles through Castiel’s chest as he decapitates, stinging and making him crackle with energy, blue-white and snapping. There’s a last burst, and his wings flow through the planes to Hell’s. Dean widens his eyes in shock; Castiel pays no mind. He presses his fingers gently to DEan’s forehead and he passes into unconsciousness. 

Gripping him around the shoulders in a cradling embrace, Castiel continues the fight, his wings arced behind him. Grace hums in the air. Another demon grips Dean’s ankle, and again the fiery sensation is there. 

Even when the demon is screaming in pain, its hands around a shredded torso, Castiel  _ burns _ . The hand touching Dean’s bicep is blazing with Grace, every atom of Castiel bellowing. This is his charge. His assignment. His Dean. 

It seems an eternity before there is a lapse in the onslaught, and Castiel flies them out of Hell with a small sigh. 

**Author's Note:**

> The whole of this fic was based on the headcanon that Dean & Cas fell in love while Dean was being healed by Cas. And by golly, if I can find the damn Tumblr post on it, I'll paste the link here. Here's to hoping.
> 
> The version of Hell I've described here is vaguely like the Inferno (kickass thing by the way, Dante knew what he was fuckin' doin'). I really need to work on my damn settings. *sighs in Tired*


End file.
